My life in dogs

I didn’t have any pets when I was a child. Even in my first four years on a farm, I remember only one dog, Butch, who was more of a watchdog and indeed did bite a few people. My older sisters recall the pleasures of barn kittens, and the cows had names, but that was it. No, not quite. Taxidermy must have been popular then because I remember for years dusting a stuffed pheasant and possibly something furry (a squirrel?), but I guess if they were dead, it doesn’t count as a pet, right? I longed for something cuddly and nearly killed the neighbor’s Pekingese with kindness. We all doted on that short-lived lapdog because I don’t recall ANYone having pets on that street of little bungalows. Now it seems almost everyone in a single house has something. In truth, I was afraid of dogs, a fear picked up from my mother who would freeze whenever a strange, and at that time unleashed, dog appeared when we were walking somewhere. I still do the same today.

Liz visiting Sheba

The pets began with my first husband Don, a hunter. One day after a several years of marriage, he opened the front door and an English setter ran in (notice how all my husbands use the element of surprise), tore through our entire ranch house and jumped on everything once until captured by Don, who assured me he would be living outside (the dog, not Don, but don’t assume I didn’t think about it!). By winter Sheba had a deluxe doghouse and cement pen at the back of the yard.

Sheba’s relatively brief reign was followed by an Irish Setter, Rusty

Liz with Rusty

who at barely a year old got a sore on his leg and, despite careful veterinary attention, went blind and had to be put down.

Then there was Ginger Snap, a Brittany Spaniel, who rated a bigger doghouse and yard close to the house. One day my oldest daughter Liz, then about five or six, informed me that another dog had “fallen in love with Ginger Snap.” Really? I raced to the sunporch windows and observed a rather unattractive but muscular spotted dog pacing around outside Ginger Snap’s pen. What did I know about the power of a female in heat?

We noticed that the boyfriend arrived at our house on a country road every day at the same time. It took the dog most of each day on foot (what? did I think he would take a cab?) to reach Ginger Snap from his home.

Brittany Spaniel like Ginger Snap

He soon stepped up the pace of his courtship, and despite the pen, they were hooking up, but how? (I have my suspicions!) Liz had questions of course. ”YOU tell her,” I whispered urgently to Don in the privacy of the bathroom. ”No, YOU tell her!” replied Don, smirking. “You’re the mother.” I don’t recall if anyone told her anything or we just distracted her with talk of possible puppies.

German Drahthaar

Don somehow located the dog’s owner (or he located us) and learned that Yeager was a German Drahthaar, an amazing and very valuable German hunting dog, and that he had cost his owner $1000. Wow, back in 1970 we were really impressed and began to regard Ginger Snap’s potential pregnancy as something of a romantic coup and moneymaker rather than a disaster. When Ginger’s impending motherhood was confirmed, I was also relieved because I no longer, terrified out of my wits, had to walk across the road for the mail with a big stick for protection from Ginger’s fans.

Ginger produced eight puppies the night before Don was to leave for two weeks on Naval Reserve duty.

Knowing zip about dogs and even less about puppies, I was both horrified and challenged by what lay ahead. It took one growl from Ginger Snap, ensconced safely in the garage with her puppies, to teach me not to touch her babies. I learned to take Ginger Snap out first for a nature call, fresh air and a chance to be alone and stretch her legs. Once she was out, the girls piled the puppies into a doll carriage and took them to a different spot to play. Ginger Snap, the girls and I became a team nurturing the puppies: Ginger Snap providing mother’s milk and care; me cleaning up messes and providing plenty of mommy food; and the little girls socializing the adorable puppies.

Yaeger’s genes had the bigger say in the puppies’ appearance, densely spotted in black and gray as they all were, but Ginger Snap’s softened and sweetened their faces. Almost all of them survived. We kept one of the puppies, named him Pepper, and marveled at his antics and incredible speed . He loved catching sparks from the burn barrel (yes, those were the days) and would be there already waiting for any ball you threw to reach him rather than having to chase after it. Almost before the ball even left your hand, he had it in his mouth!

My second marriage produced Leon, often called Rufus by Kim. He was a promised reward for pulling up her grades and she remained his favorite. When he was brought home from the Lollypop Farm shelter, he was very anxious to please. Although still a puppy, he gave his paw and rolled over and performed a number of other rather amazing doggy feats. Once he saw that we were impressed, he never bothered to do most of those tricks again. Secure in his new home, he set his sights on chewing. I knew nothing about inside pets and was daily horrified at the damage. I still recall the day I opened the broom closet where I hid my ONLY LEATHER BOOTS EVER and found one in shreds.

Once the art of chewing became boring, Leon’s whole purpose in life became escape – either out of the house or out of the yard; he wasn’t fussy. Using a variety of techniques, Roy raised the fence of our yard higher and higher. Also using a variety of techniques, Leon dug under and around it. A good sized black mutt with a huge plume of a friendly tail, he could clear a coffee table of ornaments, cups and papers in one sweep – and often did.

Leon watched the girls grow up, waited for their homecomings from college, lived for a while with only Roy and our happy cat couple, Wallina and Pierre (read about their shotgun wedding), then resumed life with both me and Roy in Albany until his healthy, happy doggy days ran out. No sense spelling out that pain. He was 16 when he left us, and Roy and I left each other a year later.

My third marriage brought me the dearest husband AND the dearest dog. Please don’t ask me to choose – ha, ha. One day when I brought one of our sweetest cats ever -Molly, a rescue who had only one ear and loved laps, but died before we had her four days – to Central Vet, the receptionist asked if we’d be interested in a dog. Her elderly owner had had a stroke and she’d just hung up the phone on the news that she would not be able to reclaim Dody who had been boarding there for several months.

Before I had even time to register the situation, she asked if I’d like to see Dodie and I waited for her to produce a photo, but no, out came Dodie herself, a very friendly overweight 10-year old black cockapoo who looked like a sheep! I was on my way out of town but said I would mention Dodie to my husband. When I returned home from my trip Dodie was there.

Dodie the Dog

We found out later that Dodie, with multiple problems, had not been expected to last long. However, under Hutch’s close supervision, with regular walks, a diet regimen and weight loss, she soon became a frisky senior. We later learned,when we visited her former owner, that Dodie had not had walks before but had only been put out for exercise hooked along a clothesline. It was weeks before we knew she could bark! She was quick, however, to reveal her addiction to chicken and love of car rides.

Dodie was the gentlest dog I have ever known and the only dog I feared not one tiny bit. She acceded to every requirement that came her way with a sweet stoicism that was a lesson to both of us. She had a joyous nature and always made clear how glad she was to see you. From the first day she could be let out in the yard to do her business and not stray, had little interest in other dogs and bore well that our cats had no interest in her! I never thought I could love a dog so much. She left us this year in January and she also was 16.

Dodie’s outstanding sweetness, patience and good behavior have set the bar high for any replacement. I would be a liar if I did not admit that her last few senior years were tough on us as well as on her. However, I cannot say that I want my life in dogs to be over.

How about YOU, readers? Any snippets of YOUR life in dogs you want to share?

6 Responses

Love these stories. I measure my life in dogs, too. My grandfather couldn’t say no to anything. My mom tells me stories of always having a handful of dogs and cats growing up. Neighborhood people knew that if they left a pet who had overstayed it’s welcome at their house near my grandparent’s house, my grandfather would take it in. Luckily they had a lot of land. He became choosier later in life, and by the time I came around they only had 2 dogs. One of those lived to be about 17, another dying “young” at 10. When my grandfather went to pick up the ashes of the 10 year old, the people at the pound just happened to have a 1 year old dog who looked very similar to the dog who had just passed away up front at the counter. Of couse, he accompanied my grandfather home, and he outlived my grandfather, making it to 17 (as a 150lb German Shepherd mutt!), and kept my grandmother company until a few years ago.

Love for pets is apparently a genetic trait, and that love has long lasting benefits for the pets, because the Basset Hound I grew up with lived to be 16, my cat lived to be 18, and my parents currently have 12 and 13 year old black lab mutts. All those dogs were part of the family (and the ones still around are even more spoiled than their predecessors). It doesn’t feel like home if there isn’t a dog somewhere, doing something he isn’t supposed to be doing.

Bear was “my” dog and when I found that she had died I ran like an 8-year old to cry in my wife’s arms, my 39 years of age and Marine-poster chin notwithstanding. I think the loss of a pet affects us so profoundly because we love them – - or perhaps better said, we *allow* ourselves to love them – - with the part of us that remains 8 years old no matter how long we are here. It is the part that loves unconditionally and innocently and vulnerably. It is the part that believes with a purposeful naivete that our pets will live on with us forever. The part that refuses, even until the moment of final confrontation with the needle, to imagine what life will be like without them – - without that treasured friend waiting for us when we come home, nudging a ball at us after dinner or waiting hopefully near the door, shoving a wet nose into the blankets in the morning. We love our pets the way children love, and we cry like children when they leave us. (And, apparently, when we recount their leaving.) . . . Go get ‘em, Bear.

Mary, I love your life in dogs! I had cats as a child, no dogs. One time my parents found a dog and we were able to keep it a couple nights. We posted “found dog” notices in the neighborhood, and my mom told my brother and I that if no one claimed him, we could keep him. We called him Claude and he was sweet and fluffy. We really hoped no one would claim him. However, thankfully for the family that lost him, they were able to come claim him, thus eliminating my childhood opportunity to have a dog.

I think of the dog I have now as the “dog of a lifetime,” as she is so great I can’t imagine one better. She went to my parents’ home today as I was having some work done on the outside of my house and didn’t want her to be scared by all the noise. When she was dropped off back home, she ran in the house and gave me hugs,kisses and happy grunts. She is such a love, I’m lucky to have her.

Thanks, Julie. It’s probably clear by now how much I love reading other people’s experiences. Your short-lived hope of owning a dog made me grin, I admit, from a parental point of view. I always tell my grandchildren when they are disappointed or disgruntled by their parents’ decisions: Look, one day before you know it, YOU will be an adult with your own place, your own rules, and any pets or friends you want. It will be YOUR turn. Just hang in there. Glad to know you are still reading.

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